In less than thirty minutes, they would all pile into the ducal carriage and, with Eleanor’s older brother Ralston, revered heir to the dukedom, as escort, they’d head off to the first major ball of London’s social season.
“Just don’t have too great an expectation,” Lydia warned, her black brows lowering as she glanced at Bridget from the corner of her eye. “It might not be the glittering, romantic experience you’re hoping for, and I know how harshly you take disappointment.”
“Don’t worry,” Bridget assured brightly as she smoothed her hands over the satin fall of her ballgown. “I’ve kept my expectations quite reasonable.” Lydia and Eleanor shared a quick glance at that blatant falsehood. Bridgetneverkept her expectations reasonable. “But it shan’t dampen my excitement. I’m happy just to finally be a part of it all.”
Concern tensed Eleanor’s muscles. Bridget was a hopeless romanticand idealist. Somewhere in her very active mind, she’d likely already envisioned a grand love affair with some handsome, noble prince of a man. As was the case for most hopeful debutantes, she no doubt believed her true love awaited her in one of the ballrooms or drawing rooms of London.
Eleanor and Lydia both knew better.
In actuality, the marriage market was a cut-throat stage upon which debutantes and their mamas fought tooth and nail for the opportunity to snag the most eligible bachelors, while those highly sought-after gentlemen did their best to remain unattached for as long as possible.
In a word—it was wretched. For some, like Eleanor, it was downright loathsome.
As the daughter of an extremely powerful duke and the granddaughter of another via her mother, she’d grown up somewhat cloistered and protected within the privilege of the grand and influential Fairchild family. Throughout her childhood, it was extremely rare for her to spend any time with people she hadn’t known since birth. And though she’d always been rather shy and reserved in social situations, her tutors had ensured she knew all the necessary skills and manners that would be expected of her once she debuted into society.
And the expectations were high. Astronomical, really.
Being from such a fortunate and well-known pedigree, she was expected to display the epitome of her wealth, social station, and the legacy of her illustrious family lines. Everyone anticipated that she would do great things. And great things—when it came to a woman—meant marrying very,verywell. She’d known people would be constantly watching her, studying her, and judging her every move. She thought she’d resigned herself to that fact.
She’d had no idea she’d be so unprepared.
At her very first ball last year, Eleanor discovered something new about herself. She was utterly, terrifyingly incompetent when it cameto socializing. If someone spoke to her directly or just looked at her with the slightest bit of expectation in their eyes, she froze. Like a block of solid ice. Unable to move or speak or even draw a proper breath. Her heart would race, her mind would go utterly numb, and the oddest sounds would slip from her throat. It was as if some unseen, unbreakable force would take total control of her faculties, leaving her shaken and shamed.
Thank God for Lydia. Her dear cousin had known instantly that something was wrong and often managed to subvert the attention. But it only worked for a short time. Soon enough, word of Eleanor’s abject social inadequacies spread throughout the haute ton and she became a pariah and secret laughingstock. No one wished to approach her. If anyone was unintentionally caught in conversation with her, they made swift excuses to depart. And then the nicknames started. And the write-ups in the gossip pages as everyone speculated how a lady from such a fine background could be so wretchedly disappointing. It was declared rather caustically that even though she was the fairest debutante of the season by far, her exceptional beauty was not enough to save her.
Eleanor’s parents had tried to minimize the concern, saying the gossip pages were not a proper source of information. Even her annoyingly perfect brother had waved aside the obvious disaster of her come-out, suggesting she just needed time to acclimate to the unspoken rules of London society.
She’d tried. She’d worked with tutors to try to find some method of claiming ease in casual encounters. She’d practiced the art of small talk until the words she spoke began to sound foreign. Nothing had helped. She’d always ended up feeling far too aware of herself and others. Too discomfited by the slightest moments of unease, the stuttering pauses, the brief and awkward eye contact. The sense of being on display in some performance for which she’d forgotten all her lines.
To avoid stuttering painfully, she often said nothing at all or kept her responses to a couple clipped words, which only solidified her reputation for being frigid and devoid of personality. Once she knew that was how people saw her, she couldn’t seem to find a way to present any evidence to the contrary.
It never got better. She’d just learned throughout the season how to avoid the circumstances that would trigger her worst responses and struggled through the rest.
And now she was going to have to do it all over again.
And for what? So, she could fulfill her role as the daughter of an illustrious family line and snatch a wealthy, influential husband?Blech! The whole thing was so despicable.
Yet, her lot in life had been set the day she’d been born.
Dread sat like an anvil in her stomach. And though Lydia had asked her how she was doing a few times in the weeks leading up to the start of the Season and Bridget often tried to distract her with humorous stories and her own excitement, she could see her cousins were concerned for her.
So, she did the only thing she could do—she put on a serene expression and forced her fears and dreaded discomfort down to the deepest parts of herself. She might abhor the social whirl, but she wasn’t going to ruin it for her cousins.
Well, for Bridget, anyway. Lydia disliked high society for her own reasons.
“How’s that, my lady?” Her maid, Gretchen, stepped back, indicating she’d finished Eleanor’s coiffure.
After turning her head one way then the other, Eleanor nodded. “Lovely. Thank you.” Not that she knew much about hairstyles. She’d never really understood what was fashionable and what wasn’t and simply accepted the guidance from others on such matters. Rising to her feet, she allowed Gretchen to help her into her gown of pale pink shot through with silver thread.
Then she turned to her cousin. “Your turn, Lydia.”
Having waited until the very last moment to finish her toilet, Lydia finally set her book aside and rose from the chaise with a weighted sigh. Shedding her robe, she stepped into a gown the pale-blue color that was a perfect complement to her gray-blue eyes. Eleanor knew Lydia had begged her mother for a few gowns in darker shades, but the marchioness staunchly refused to consider such a thing. Debutantes wore pastels or white. Nothing else.
Bridget, in a gown of pure white with a sunny yellow sash and tiny yellow flowers embroidered at the hem, had been fully ready for quite some time, but she leaned forward to check her gleaming dark, auburn hair in the vanity mirror at least three more times before they left the dressing room and made their way downstairs.
Ralston was already waiting in the entry hall. His expression the picture of brotherly impatience.
Before her first season, Eleanor had believed her mother would be her chaperone and guide. She’d discovered the night of her debut ball that her brother had been given the task. Her mother was a quiet, retiring woman who’d never really enjoyed society, preferring to keep to the country whenever possible.
